The Kingdom of Erised
by Avluela
Summary: (AU) A letter to a granddaughter can reveal many things. This is the the story of The Dark Lord, a red haired courtesan and the choices you have to make in love and war. GW/TR


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Light filtered into the room through an open window. It illuminated the dusty old furniture, the drowsy paintings and a collection of odd little trinkets with the warm glow of life. Cobwebs stretched across shadowed corners like delicate tapestries, woven by generation after generation of spiders who had inhabited the empty study. Only the muted snores of one of the more elderly paintings disturbed the stillness of that warm Friday afternoon. 

The door creaked open. A girl stepped inside. Her long black hair and robes of a matching colour looked out of place against the gaudy red and orange furnishings. Carefully, she closed the door and settled down onto a chair. 

The air, she noted, still had the same smell. There was a faint odour of roses, sweet and luxurious. Her grandmother had always loved roses, and she'd brought fresh ones up to the room every morning. Red roses, as bright as a drop of blood were the kind she had loved best. Vivian doubted the scent of roses would ever leave the room. 

No one had been up to her grandmother's study for months. Ever since her death the room had been abandoned. The memory of that gentle woman was still too strong; the loss was still too new. Only Vivian felt ready to face the past. 

Her eyes gazed at the paintings hung on the walls. Her favourite was that of her grandmother when she was younger. That painting did not sleep. It looked out at the study with dreamy brown eyes, a languid smile gracing its lips. Vivian's grandmother had been beautiful once. Her red hair and porcelain skin had made her unique, maybe even exotic. There had been rumours when Vivian was small; rumours about her grandmother's life during the Dark Lord's reign. Some people said that she had been a high-class prostitute, a courtesan who served in the Inner Circle of Death Eaters. Vivian had paid little heed to those rumours, but now she wondered if there was any truth in them. Her grandmother had been a striking woman after all, and she was told that life had been difficult for women during that time of darkness. Maybe, in an attempt at survival, her grandmother had really become a courtesan. 

Vivian shrugged. Well, she would never know now. Her grandmother was in a place Vivian could no longer reach. It was probably a story that her grandmother would not have wanted to tell anyway. She had always been a very open woman, but sometimes, when people had asked about her past, she had closed up with an abrupt snap. Even sweet old women had their secrets. If there was one thing that Vivian understood, it was secrets. 

The dark haired girl stood up and began to explore. She idly flicked through old photo albums, scrutinized bizarre objects and skimmed old books. They all reflected her grandmother in some way and they filled Vivian with a sense of peace. She had not realized how empty the house felt without her.

That was when it caught her eye. The envelope lay on the table, in plain sight. Vivian was surprised that she had not seen it before. She picked it up carefully and read the message on the back.

_Only to be opened by Vivian, my granddaughter._

Vivian frowned thoughtfully. Why would her grandmother have left her a letter? She couldn't understand it. Slowly, she tore open the envelope to reveal a large wad of paper and a small photograph. The photograph was the first thing that really caught her attention. It was quite a normal picture really, but there was something so… familiar about it. The man's eyes were a murky blue, like her own, and his hair was just as dark. She could see her own face reflected in his. Her eyes widened slightly. Could this be her… grandfather? 

Vivian sat back down on the chair, her body taught with anticipation. Fumbling, she pulled the papers out of the envelope. One letter was separate from the other, tightly bound sheets. Vivian began to read.   

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_Dear Vivian,_

_Have you been to my funeral yet granddaughter? I know that I will be dead by the time you read this, but don't be too sorrowful. I've lived a good long life, and it is my time to go. **I** am not sad to leave this world. Promise me that you will cry no tears on my behalf. _

_Read carefully now child, because this letter is about your mother, your heritage and about me. It is a story only known by a few chosen people, and your mother is not one of them. Do not tell her. She does not need to know, but you do. I have seen all the signs of **his **unique power in you. You will need to know the truth if only to protect yourself. _

_Keep this secret child. Never tell another soul what is told within this letter. Tell no friends, no lovers and no family. Tell **no one. **There are still those who would seek revenge on **him**. Those who would kill his descendants because of their blood. _

**_He _**_was the Dark lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Tom Riddle and Voldemort. He was many things, and he was your grandfather. _

_Haven't you ever wondered child, from where you inherited your long black hair when both your mother and father are red heads? Have you ever wondered at the fact that you were put in Slytherin when all your family were Gryffindors?_

_Don't you wonder at your ability to speak parsletongue?_

_Ah, you thought no one knew. I am merely very observant Vivian, and I know what to look for. I was Tom's mistress after all. A woman learns to recognize her lover's magic. _

_The rest of this message is my story. You will have to burn it when you have finished reading, which is a pity. I did work sohard on it. But the secret cannot be revealed, and having the whole story on paper is just asking for trouble. _

_Good bye Vivian. I wish you luck in the world of the living. You're going to need it._

_Yours,_

_Ginny Weasley._

**************

The letter slipped out of Vivian's numb fingers and fluttered to the floor. She stared up sightlessly, her eyes black with shock. 

"Grandmother…" 

_!! _


End file.
